Here by Mistake Read online

  Brandon put his head back and laughed out loud.

  Quint walked through the door an hour later. Still on the couch, Brandon turned around. Their eyes met.

  “See the news?” Brandon asked.

  Quint nodded. “Watched it with my dear friend Gabriel. He was in a good mood ’til the report of a certain race out of Utah. Seems he bet some dumb sucker Craig Breedlove wouldn’t hit 600.601 miles per hour on the nose. But 600.601 it turned out t’be. So now poor Gabriel’s out a hundred dollars.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Heartbreakin’,” Quint said, dabbing a dry eye with his handkerchief. “But he’s a stand-up guy who settles his debts. ’Specially when the sucker he owes is standin’ right there. Sooo . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something green. He spread out the something to reveal five twenty-dollar bills.

  The sight of money had never made Brandon so happy. “So we’re set,” he exulted.

  Quint gave the thumbs-up. “Tomorrow’s a go.”

  NINE

  Heading North

  Quint was up before dawn. He dressed in the dark and stepped gingerly over Sarah and Stephen. He was reaching for the doorknob when his foot came down on a shin, which jerked away. He lurched and fell on his tailbone with a thud. “Damn it,” he whispered, sitting up. Brandon also sat up. There was a moan from Sarah and, “What is it?” from Stephen.

  “Nothing,” Quint whispered. “It’s early. Go back t’sleep.” He put his hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Sorry, B. I didn’t see y’there.”

  Brandon’s eyes were closed. “Where’re you going?” he asked hazily.

  “T’get my bookkeepin’ money from the bakery. We’ll need it.”

  “I’ll go too.” He yawned.

  Quint shook his head. “No, not for this. It’s way early. Sleep ’til it’s light, then load the bundles in the car. I’m walkin’ t’the bakery so I don’t wake up the neighborhood.” He found his footing and stood up. “I’ll bring back breakfast.”

  “Okay,” Brandon said, lying back down.

  Quint found the knob and opened the door. “Y’know, B,” he whispered, “y’must be sleepy if you’re doin’ what I say without a fight.”

  Brandon didn’t answer; he was already asleep.

  Quint stepped out on the balcony and closed the door softly behind him. He went quietly down the steps.

  By seven everyone was up. Brandon and Stephen brought their bundles down to the Edsel and loaded them in the trunk. Then Brandon ran back to get Sarah’s. She was still working on it.

  “You’ve been packing since yesterday,” he complained.

  “Chill, B. Give me five minutes.”

  Brandon walked down the steps. He noticed the milk box on the patio and raised the lid. Sure enough, there was a cold quart inside. He brought the bottle up to the apartment and placed it in the refrigerator. Then he heard Sarah call out, “All set.” He walked into the living room to find her dragging her bundle to the door. It was bigger than his and Stephen’s put together.

  “What’s this?” he exclaimed. “You got the same clothes we did.”

  Sarah smiled sweetly at him. “I’m bringing some blankets in case we have to sleep in the car. And a pillow. And some towels and soap, and shampoo. Some toothbrushes and toothpaste, plates to eat on, water glasses, and knives and forks. A few pots and pans. And a few other things. They might come in handy, and I’m sure you didn’t think of them.” She smoothed her hand over his cheek. “Thanks so much for bringing it down for me, B.” She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Brandon glared after her. “Thanks so much, B,” he mouthed to the bathroom door. Then he hoisted the bundle on his back and staggered to the balcony. He pounded down three steps and stopped to shift the load. Two steps later he stopped to shift it again. Halfway to the patio his muscles were screaming, and in a rage he almost pushed the bundle over the railing. Making it to the last step, his foot slipped on the iron and he went tottering across the patio.

  Stephen was sitting behind the wheel of the Edsel, his nose in the owner’s manual. Looking up, he jumped out of the car and ran over to Brandon. He grabbed part of the load and helped maneuver it to the Edsel. When the bundle hit the trunk, both he and Brandon collapsed on the grass. Stephen burst out laughing. Brandon was furious and wanted to stay that way, but hearing Stephen got him laughing too.

  “Sarah travels prepared,” Stephen gasped.

  “Uh-huh.” Brandon coughed. “She came here with just the clothes on her back. Now she’s got more than Quint.” He grabbed the Edsel’s bumper and pulled himself to his feet. “Just like my mom. At home we’ve got this huge walk-in closet. It’s packed with her stuff. My dad’s got two suits on the end.”

  Quint turned the corner of the building and, seeing Brandon and Stephen, walked over. “What’re y’doin’ on the ground, my man?” he asked Stephen, taking his hand and pulling him up. “Bundles in the car?” he asked Brandon.

  “Yeah.” Brandon smirked. “So’s half your apartment.”

  Quint glanced in the trunk and gave the big bundle a push. “Sarah’s?” He smiled.

  “She’s starting a walk-in closet,” Stephen said.

  Quint closed the trunk and held up a bag from the bakery. “Last time for beignets. Let’s eat.”

  Five minutes later they were sitting around the kitchen table. The beignets were warming in the oven. Stephen’s coffee was brewing on the stove.

  “Those bruises are lookin’ better,” Quint said. “Y’all doin’ okay?”

  “Yes,” Brandon and Stephen said together.

  “Can I get a book to read on the trip?” Sarah asked. “It would help take my mind off things.”

  “Sure,” Quint said. “Pick out whatever y’want.”

  Sarah replied meekly, “All your books are on sports. I mean a novel.”

  Quint shook his head. “No novels here.”

  “Can I buy one?”

  “No.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Just a paperback. I still have some one-dollar bills.”

  “No. Sarah, listen. We don’t have money for novels. This trip’ll be a stretch. And keep y’own dollars ’til 2005. We can’t chance gettin’ picked up for passin’ funny bills. We can’t be havin’ any contact with the police. We need t’remember what’s important here.”

  Sarah bowed her head. “Okay.”

  Quint reached into his pocket and brought out a ring of keys. “Faye gave me these the other day, t’keep ’til I drive her north. These’ll get us in the house in Rollin’s. I’m expectin’ the day we arrive t’get y’all through the niche and start headin’ back. That’s what we need t’be thinkin’ about.” He set the keys on the table.

  The round brass tag stamped BIRMINGHAM caught Brandon’s eye. “Wait a sec. Those are the keys I took from your house . . . I’ve got those keys in my pocket.”

  “What?” Quint asked.

  Brandon brought out his keys. He held the tag on his ring next to the one on Quint’s. “Look,” he exclaimed. “My tag’s not shiny, but that same little piece is broken off under the M.”

  “He’s right,” Stephen gasped. “They’re the same keys.”

  “Impossible,” Quint huffed.

  Suddenly Brandon yanked his hand back. His keys hit the table. “Ow,” he cried. “They burned me.”

  Sarah took his hand and turned it over. Then she looked back at the table and let out a shriek.

  A pencil-thin line of smoke was rising from Brandon’s keys. Before anyone could say a word, another line of smoke appeared, and just as quickly still another did. An acrid smell began filling the kitchen. Brandon waved the smoke out of his face and glimpsed the marbled pattern of the tabletop through his keys. “They’re disappearing,” he cried.

  Everyone watched as the keys grew fainter and fainter. In a few seconds they were gone. All that remained were a scorched spot on the table and the awful smell in the air. Sarah rushed to open the window.


  Quint stammered, “They . . . th-they . . . ”

  “So that’s what happens,” Stephen said. “It makes sense.”

  “What does?” Sarah asked, wiping her eyes.

  Stephen tapped the scorched spot lightly with his finger. “There’s only one set of those keys. We had two because we came through time. One set had to go, and that’s what just happened. The keys from 1965 are still here, and they’ll age into the set B had.” He fell silent. And then he trembled.

  “What?” Brandon asked.

  Stephen gripped the table to steady himself. “I was just thinking about us. What if we go back to 2005 and come face-to-face with . . . ourselves. What’ll happen?”

  “You mean, the same thing that happened just now?” Sarah cried.

  “I don’t know,” Stephen said ominously. “And I don’t know what to do about it before we jump through the niche.”

  Quint brought the Edsel to a roaring start at nine o’clock, and they were off. They took North Peters Street to Elysian Fields Avenue and got on Interstate 10.

  “I almost forgot, we need more food,” Quint said, giving his face a little slap. “I know a place on the way.”

  They turned off I-10 at Crowder Road and drove for two blocks, pulling up opposite a gray cinder block building with no sign. The front windows were completely covered with posters announcing food specials.

  “Sit tight,” Quint said. “I’ll be quick.”

  “Let me—” Brandon began.

  “No,” Quint said. He got out and slammed the door.

  Brandon fumed as Quint trotted across the street to the store. “He doesn’t even listen. I want to see what they have.” He threw open his door and jumped out.

  “B,” Sarah said anxiously, “you’ll just make him mad.”

  Brandon didn’t reply. He ran across the street and entered the store.

  Sarah sighed and told Stephen, “I’m getting him before Quint thumps him.” They got out and ran to the store. First inside, Sarah spotted Brandon in the canned goods aisle. She hurried over to him.

  “Where’s Quint?” she asked.

  “In the bathroom,” Brandon said sharply. “I’m waiting for him.”

  “B, let’s go now.”

  “No.”

  Sarah took him by the arm. “This way,” she said. “Come on, Stephen. We’re going.”

  At that moment a shout came from the back of the store: “Hey!”

  Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen spun around. A huge man in a soiled gray apron was pounding down the aisle toward them. His beard was bushy black and his eyes were red.

  “You!” the man shouted. “What y’hangin’ ’round here for?” Brandon stepped forward. “We’re waiting for our friend. He’s in the bath—”

  “Shut up, boy. Move aside,” the man barked. He bumped past Brandon and Sarah and stood over Stephen. “I asked y’a question. What y’hangin’ ’round here for?”

  Stephen shrank from him. “We’re . . . like my friend said, we’re w-waiting . . . ”

  Brandon squeezed himself around the man and stood in front of Stephen. “We’re together,” he cried. “Our friend’s in the bathroom.”

  The man inhaled loudly and roared, “I ain’t talkin’ t’you, boy! Y’got a problem mindin’ y’own business?”

  Brandon pushed out his chest and roared back, “Call me ‘boy’ one more time, you fat—”

  “Hold it.” Quint ran down the next aisle and came up behind Stephen and Brandon. He took them by the shoulders and pulled them behind him. “What’s the problem, Fatty?”

  The man raised his sweaty face. “Quint, these yours?”

  “All three.” Quint nodded to Sarah, who edged around Fatty and joined her friends. “What’s the problem?” he asked again.

  “What’s he doin’ here?” Fatty growled, pointing at Stephen.

  “My mistake. Everyone was supposed t’sit tight while I came in,” Quint said, with a blistering look at Brandon. “They’re leavin’ now.”

  “Oh, no,” Fatty said. He waddled forward, crowding everyone to the checkout counter. “No, no, I’m losin’ goods t’thieves ever’day, ever’day, Quint.” He scowled at Stephen. “Gi’ me th’ bag.”

  “You’re crazy, Fatty,” Quint told him.

  Fatty put his sweaty, bushy face right in Quint’s. “I’m lookin’ in that bag or I’m callin’ the cops, Quint. I ain’t askin’ permission.” He stuck his palm out to Stephen. “Giv’ it here.”

  Shaking all over, Stephen slipped the left strap off his shoulder. As he was doing the same with the right, Fatty grabbed the left strap and yanked it. Stephen lost his balance and hit the floor. Fatty threw the backpack on the counter.

  “Hey!” Brandon yelled. He rushed past Quint and shoved Fatty in the chest with both hands.

  Fatty swayed, but his great weight kept his feet in place. He bared his teeth at Brandon and swung his arm back to slap him.

  “Hold it!” Quint yelled. He grabbed Brandon around the waist and started dragging him to the door. “Sarah, come here!”

  Brandon struggled to free himself. “Let go, Quint! Let me go. Get off me.”

  Quint pulled him up next to the door. “Hold it open,” he told Sarah. She did as he said. Quint turned Brandon around and flung him outside. “Go,” he told Sarah, and she followed.

  Brandon righted himself and ran back to the door. Quint blocked him. Sarah grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away.

  Quint’s temples were pulsing. “Sarah,” he said, looking Brandon in the eye, “keep him outside or I swear t’God I’ll flatten him myself.” He slammed the door in Brandon’s face.

  Fatty roared from the checkout, “Quint, I don’t want fightin’ in th’ store.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Quint said, returning to the counter. “Y’brought all this on with y’nonsense. Check the damn bag so we can go.”

  Fatty huffed and pulled the backpack’s Velcro fasteners apart. He flinched at the ripping sound. “What th’ hell’s this stuff?” he muttered. He groped inside the pack and brought out the Twentieth Century Digest. “Y’read this, boy?”

  “Yes,” Stephen murmured.

  “Hah. A scholar. Well, well.”

  “What’d y’expect?” Quint said acidly. “He’s not goin’ t’be a grocery clerk.”

  Fatty turned his red eyes on Quint and then resumed his search. He brought out Stephen’s notebook and The Almanac of American Politics 2005. “Hah,” he scoffed, dropping them on the counter. He turned the backpack upside down and shook it.

  “Gee, nothin’ stolen,” Quint said. “Happy?”

  Fatty wasn’t. He scooped up Stephen’s property and threw it at him. “And I ain’t expectin’ t’see y’in here again.”

  Stephen’s things scattered over the floor. He bent down and picked them up.

  “Not t’worry, Fatty,” Quint said. “He’s got too much pride t’be seen in this stinkhole.”

  Fatty bristled and stuck out his chin. “Did I hear y’right?” he roared.

  “I imagine so,” Quint roared back. “Unless you’re deaf as well as fat.” He steered Stephen out the door and slammed it behind them.

  Brandon was pacing back and forth in front of the Edsel. He looked up and saw Quint and Stephen crossing the street. “Stephen,” he yelled. “Are you okay? Can you believe that guy? We should go back in there and—”

  Stephen was gasping and clutching his things to his chest. Quint held him close and leaned into Brandon. “B, shut—the— hell—up.” He told Sarah, “Get him out of here. Y’all walk ’round that block.” He pointed to it. “Don’t come back for fifteen minutes.”

  “Quint,” Brandon exclaimed, “I’m trying—”

  Quint released Stephen and took Brandon by the shoulders. He turned him around and shoved him in the direction of the block. “Go. Fifteen minutes.”

  Brandon started to come back but stopped when Quint took a step in his direction. Sarah grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the block. He stamped
away with her.

  Quint walked Stephen to a bench a few yards past the Edsel and sat him down. Stephen bowed his head, pinched his glasses, and pulled them off.

  Quint whispered to him, “My man, want t’put y’stuff back in the bag?”

  Stephen didn’t answer.

  “Want t’talk about it?”

  Stephen shook his head slightly.

  Quint sat quietly with him for a moment. Then he pulled him close and whispered in his ear: “I’m sorry, Stephen.”

  All the breath rushed out of Stephen at once. He grabbed Quint’s jersey and buried his face in it. His body jerked, and his things slid off his lap to the grass. Quint held him and rubbed his back as the jerks kept coming, and held him as they faded away.

  “My man, y’handled y’self well today,” Quint whispered when Stephen’s breathing was steady. “How old are y’again?”

  Stephen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “In thirty-two days.”

  “Oh,” Quint said. “I just wondered. Seems like y’always know the answers t’the questions we have. And of course I only believed the time travel story after y’proved it t’me with the book. How’s it such a young guy knows so much?”

  Stephen didn’t answer.

  “History’s y’subject, right?”

  He nodded once.

  Quint glanced over his shoulder at the grocery. “Well, I imagine this is one bit of history y’could’ve done without. Things’re better in 2005, right?”

  Stephen shrugged. He still held Quint tightly.

  They were quiet for a time. Stephen relaxed his grip and drew away from Quint. He felt the jersey with his hand. It was damp. “Sorry, sir,” he murmured.

  Quint grinned. “Still with the ‘sir.’ Think y’can manage callin’ me Quint?”

  “You’re older. That’s . . . h-hard.”

  “Okay.” Quint smiled. “‘Sir,’ it is.”

  “Sir,” Stephen whispered, head bowed, “please don’t tell B I was crying.”

  Quint tried to see his face. “Think he’d laugh?”